by Lutzke, Chad
Of Foster Homes and Flies
by
Chad Lutzke
“Disturbing, often gruesome, yet poignant at the same time, Chad Lutzke’s OF FOSTER HOMES AND FLIES is one of the best dark coming-of-age tales I’ve read in years. You’ll laugh (sometimes when you know you shouldn’t), you’ll cry, you’ll find yourself wondering how soon you can read more of this guy’s work. Highly recommended!”
~ James Newman, author of MIDNIGHT RAIN, UGLY AS SIN, and ODD MAN OUT
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"With OF FOSTER HOMES AND FLIES, Lutzke is firing on all cylinders. It's a lean mean emotional machine. Coming-of-age presented in a fresh direction. Bearing tremendous emotional weight and heart. It made me cry. "
~John Boden, author of JEDI SUMMER and DOMINOES.
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"OF FOSTER HOMES AND FLIES by Chad Lutzke is a lovely addition to the coming of age subgenre. He creates in the character of Denny an authentic young man with passions and foibles, someone easy to relate to and root for. The novella hits all the right notes you expect out of a coming of age tale, while also providing a plot that has originality and surprises."
~Mark Allan Gunnells, author of FLOWERS IN A DUMPSTER and THE SUMMER OF WINTERS
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"Lutzke has a way with words that merges horror and compassion in a single sentence. Reminiscent of Robert McCammon."
~ Joe Mynhardt, Crystal Lake Publishing
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"...one of those real treats that comes down the pipe and manages to get you all excited about reading again...the whole thing is just beautiful."
~ Ginger Nuts of Horror
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"Lutzke's rich, descriptive stories always leave me wanting more. He's a gifted wordsmith." ~J. Thorn, best-selling author
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"Of Foster Homes and Flies is the darkest, most disturbing story Chad Lutzke has written. It's also his best…the ultimate one-finger salute to oppression…Highly recommended."
~Dan Padavona, author of the DARK VANISHING series and STORBERRY
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"Chad Lutzke has an awesome grasp of descriptive writing...Brilliant malevolence! He is a true master at his craft."
~Blaze McRob, Bram Stoker Award nominee
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"Lutzke is a student of the horror genre with a rich voice that needs to be heard."
~ author, Terry M. West
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"Lutzke's writing is personal, detailed and often heart breaking in a terrifying."
~ Matt Molgaard, Horror Novel Reviews
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"Chad Lutzke is an emerging and exciting dark author with a firm grasp on the genre. His shadows have drastically different heartbeats, unique souls, but are unified by their dark charm and bleak shrouds."
~Zachary Walters, The Mouths of Madness Podcast
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"Chad Lutzke is an excitingly fresh emerging voice in the horror scene. His writing pulls you in, and his stories are chilling and stay with you well after a thoroughly satisfying read!"Lutzke has a way with words that merges horror and compassion in a single sentence. Reminiscent of Robert McCammon."
~Nicholas Grabowsky, Black Bed Sheet Books & author of HALLOWEEN IV
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"Unique and enveloping. At times playful and alternately existential, though always invoking empathy for the protagonist's predicament. Chad Lutzke's writing is doubtlessly bleak, yet with an odd sense of hope."
~ author, James Ferace
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"Chad's writing is a trip to the buffet of horror. No stone left unturned."
~ Blaine Cook, vocalist for The Accused, Toe Tag, & The Fartz
ebook edition
Copyright © 2016 Chad Lutzke
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Chad Lutzke
To get some free reads and be included in all future giveaways, visit www.chadlutzke.weebly.com
Prologue
I've seen plenty of movies where police investigators cower in disgust at the scent of a rotting body, covering their mouths, struggling to hold down their lunch. But all the Hollywood reactions in the world couldn't have prepared me for the real thing. There were moments I wasn't sure I could hold out, times I fell asleep with my head out the window or incense lit around me–something Mom would never allow. But with just a few more days to go, I knew it'd be worth it.
And it was.
Friday
New Orleans, Louisiana
My alarm clock goes off at 7:10 a.m. I don’t hit snooze. Ever. It just makes things worse. I'll end up back to sleep and ten minutes later more tired than before. Instead, I lay there in bed and let the thing screech until I can’t take it. Mom doesn’t complain because she never hears it. She sleeps downstairs in her chair in front of the television, reruns of I Love Lucy and Bewitched acting as a nightlight and a lullaby.
My Uncle Frank had dropped off the chair for her one day–his way of helping out after Dad passed. It wasn't a new chair, but almost. Uncle Frank used to own a furniture store, and the chair had been a floor model that ended up collecting dust in the back of his garage for years, untouched. When he gave it to Mom it came with a thick plastic covering that makes a ruckus when she shifts around. Somehow she manages to stay upright in the thing, as slippery as it is. And despite the dozen or more burn holes in the plastic–from passing out with a lit smoke in hand–she won’t take it off. I think, in her own way, she’s trying to preserve a memory and that the chair makes her think of Dad. And even though it has long since yellowed from the two packs a day, she’s convinced as long as the plastic remains, what lies beneath is a preserved gift, shiny and new.
I stretch out and start to set the alarm for the next day and realize it’s Friday, then switch it to OFF. I move my legs to get up, and there, at the foot of my bed, is Ingrid. Ingrid is Mom's dog–a little poodle that I swear would be two shades whiter if it lived under a different roof. Ingrid never sleeps with me. She was another sympathy gift after Dad passed, but this time from Aunt Sunny. I think Aunt Sunny gave my mom the dog with the hope that Mom would fall in love with the thing, have a reason to live, and put down the bottle. She loves Ingrid, adores her, cooks her eggs every morning and shares a bowl of popcorn every night. But she hasn’t stopped drinking.
I get out of bed and walk to the calendar I keep nailed to the wall. It’s four years old, but every year I cross out the old dates and fix them. It’s a mess, but I’ve made it work. My dad brought it back from a business trip to Florida. He knew I always wanted to go to Walt Disney World, and I guess he thought a calendar was the next best thing. Each page holds bright and colorful images of the castle, Space Mountain, the Epcot Center, the Haunted Mansion, and half a dozen characters, including Mickey himself.
I uncap a marker I have sitting on my dresser and check off June 1st from the calendar. Five more days until Maguire Elementary's annual spelling bee. I've been waiting all year. This will be my last year at Maguire and so I’m determined to place. After Dad died I went through a box of his old things, and in one box he had some old trophies, ribbons, and pins he'd won for photography and some others for bowling.
Sports have never been my thing, and I don’t know the first thing about taking a decent photo. I mostly read, and even write my own stories sometimes. In preparation for the bee, I've read more this year than I ever have. I’ve even started to read books I can barely understand, books I can’t get
from the school library–ones I buy for a quarter at Krickett’s Used Books. I even read the dictionary sometimes. Sometimes. This whole year I’ve gotten an A+ on every spelling test we’ve had. Come Wednesday, if my dad could see me up there on the stage, he’d be the one jumping in the crowd of parents, yelling my name, maybe even with a tear in his eye. Maybe even Mom too. Maybe.
After Dad died, Aunt Sunny used to say that Dad was watching me from above. I never really believed all that, still don’t. But it’s a nice thought. And I’ll admit that once or twice I’ve tried to talk myself into it, that he really was watching me, nodding in approval. I know he’d be proud if I won the bee. Or if I at least tried.
Last year I let my nerves stop me from even signing up for the bee. And let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like wanting to do something so bad and then turning your back on it when it’s within your reach, never finding out what could have been. I’ve regretted it ever since. Even if I would have choked on the very first word, standing on the auditorium stage in front of every one of my peers and their parents, it’s nothing compared to the shame I’ve felt for quitting before I even began. I promised myself I’d never let that happen again, and so this year I signed up the second the announcement was made.
Mom discourages my reading, says it’s a waste of time. She never says what she doesn’t consider a waste of time, just that everything I do is. She tells me the family is cursed and that if I ever think I’ll be anything more than a factory rat then I’m in for a rude awakening. And after skipping last year’s spelling bee, I started to believe her.
I look at Ingrid. She hasn’t moved. She lies curled on my blanket with her nose tucked under her leg, staring at me. As I said, it’s unlike her. She’s only ever slept with me once. Mom had misplaced her bottle of vodka, or thought she had some when she didn’t–something like that–and being Easter Sunday the stores had closed. So the rest of the day–and into the evening–she spent in a half drunken state and full of the devil. She even took it out on Ingrid, kicked her in the side a few times. Ingrid spent the night at my feet, holding a grudge and shaking like she does during a bad storm. Through it all I was hoping Mom would wake the next day realizing there was a problem with the drinking. But she didn’t. Not even a little. As a matter of fact, the next day she drank more than her usual bottle, just to make up for the loss–nursing that glass idol like it was baby Jesus himself.
Though that night was unusual for Ingrid to be at the foot end of abuse, for me it’s common place. Going to bed with an occasional bruise, reddened cheek and ringing ears–at the very least–was a weekly ritual, sometimes two or three times a week, depending on the amount of booze consumed and whether or not I showed my face while Mom was still conscious.
It's always at night, the abuse. And sometimes, late at night, when up and out of her chair, while I'm long into sleep, she’ll apologize the only way her drunken pride will allow–with blueberry Pop-Tarts, my favorite. I’ll wake for school to two of them toasted and then several hours cooled, neatly stacked on a paper plate in the middle of the dining room table. The only meal she ever "cooks." I’ll admit, at times–out of spite–I'll break them into pieces and feed them to Ingrid as she sits on the lap of my sleeping mother. And then I’ll go to school hungry and resentful.
But I don’t like feeling sorry for myself, throwing “pity parties” as Mom says. As a matter of fact, I haven’t cried in two years. I’m not sure what that makes me. I read a book once where the main character buried it all deep down and later it came out in a ghastly outburst of murderous wrath. But that’s not me. I just don’t cry is all. Not even about Dad anymore. I get sad, sure, but I don’t feed it. I reflect on the good times.
I get dressed and brush my teeth. Looking in the mirror reminds me I’d just gotten a haircut the day before, and my profoundly straight-cut bangs sends the message loud and clear. They’ll be at this awkward stage for at least another two weeks. Like wearing a brand new white pair of sneakers–everyone can tell they’re new, and they attract every set of eyes you walk near.
My Uncle Frank’s friend, Ron, owns a barbershop and always cuts my hair. He cuts it for free. I think he feels sorry for me, not so much because Dad is gone but because Mom isn’t. He doesn’t like her. They fight about the stack of girly magazines Ron keeps under the counter near the chairs. Mom will say they don’t belong in a place where kids can see them. But I never see them. They’re always face down, cigarette ad side up. And if you ask me, staring at enticing messages designed to sell tobacco is much worse than a pair of tits to gaze at for ten minutes.
I do my best to muss my bangs and give them a more natural look. No such luck. I grab my school bag from my room and toss in the book I’ve been reading: I Am Legend. It’s good. And much better than other vampire books I’ve read. Sometimes I wish I could live in a world all by myself like the book’s main character, Robert Neville. There’s a certain romanticism to it. Other than the people I see outside my house, I guess my life inside isn’t that much different than Neville’s lonely existence. Though there’s the consistent barrage of verbal assault from Mom, I’m alone within these walls. In my house, I am the last man on earth.
As I head downstairs I hear a subtle pound as Ingrid hops off my bed and follows me, carefully taking each stair. I stop half way down and she does too, not wanting to pass ahead of me. Before I reach the last step, the smell hits me. Ingrid has messed somewhere in the house. I can’t tell if it’s vomit or poop or both. But judging by the potency, there’s a lot of it. I look at Ingrid. Her tail is bent down, glued to her backside, ears flat and afraid. She has not forgotten the night she was kicked by Mom.
Except for the glow of the TV, and the slivers of morning light forcing their way in around the drapes, the living room ahead is dark. Every night before she goes to bed, Mom makes sure the blinds are pulled, the drapes closed, and the phone unplugged. She’s rarely awake before noon. And by the time I’m heading out the door for school she’s still fairly sedated from the night before, slack jawed and snoring, somehow still upright in her chair despite the slippery, plastic cover.
I walk to the sliding glass door and let Ingrid out. The heat hits me. It’s not even 7:00 a.m. and the old rusted thermometer on the side of the garage reads 76. The air is thick and wet and uninviting. Though I’ve lived in Louisiana my whole life, there are some days you never get used to it. Today will be one of them, I can tell.
Ingrid runs through the tall grass in our tiny yard, and I shut the door. I’m hoping to find the source of the smell and have it cleaned up before I leave for school, with Mom never knowing. I look near the slider. If ever Ingrid can’t hold it, she'll let go right there. Nothing. I walk into the kitchen and the smell seems to weaken. I walk back near the stairs and head for the living room. It’s like playing a game of “Hot & Cold,” my nose searching for the unwelcome prize.
I stand frozen at the edge of the living room. The game of Hot & Cold is over. My mother is sitting in her chair, mouth open but silent. What looks like a river of oatmeal, runs a crusted line down her chin and catches in a pile on her flannel-covered breast. Her lids are open wide, catching dull reflections of an old western playing out in her drying eyes. I can tell she’s dead. Not just from the still-open eyes and the drawn mouth, but the frozen look of terror, as though she had watched it come for her, the glow from the television adding to the blue in her face. I pay no mind to the chaotic gunfire spewing from the box in front of her and instead wonder why it took so long.
I’ve marveled at just how much abuse the human body can take. And though at 12 years old I have no medical education, I know that a recipe as toxic as a full bottle of liquor and two packs of cigarettes per day can never contribute to a lengthy life. Her body has fought for years to stay alive, fought through the headaches and the nausea, through the coughing and the fatigue, the malnourishment and the deprivation of sleep. And her body lost. But you can never say it gave up on her. It hung around, overstayed its welcome
even.
Ingrid scratches on the slider behind me. She hadn’t been scared after all, at least not of another kick from Mom. She knows Mom is no longer around to care for her, to feed her eggs and share popcorn. I back away slowly to the slider and let Ingrid in. She goes for the kitchen where her food and water sit on the floor, full and fresh. Mom made sure of it, always. If I wasn’t careful I could have grown to despise the dog, to envy the attention given her. It would have been easy to. But I don’t. Nothing in my life is Ingrid’s fault.
I stand at the slider and look out. The tall grass waves slightly as a breeze brushes over it. According to Old Rusty, the temperature has already gone up. Worrying about how hot it might get momentarily distracts me from the awful discovery that I’m completely alone–something I’d wished for but no longer want. Not like this.
Is it wrong that my first inclination is not to sprint for the phone and dial 911? I haven’t even checked her pulse like in the movies, or yelled out in fear or in anger toward God. Instead, I let the dog in and stare outside and think how badly our tiny lawn needs mowing.
Am I a bad son?
I forget the phone is unplugged from the night before and dial 911. I hold it to my ear, standing hypnotized by the waving grass for a full minute before I realize there is no ringing, no dial tone, no sound at all in the phone. I bend down and plug the cord into the jack near the floor. I consider the process, the order of events that will happen if I call.
Will they send an ambulance? Or one of those black vans that read “CORONER” in bright announcing letters?–while the neighbors gather outside, struggling to get a peek through the door each time it opens, letting in yet another medical personnel. Uncle Frank had died within a year of my dad, and Aunt Sunny moved to California to chase some dream of hers. It’s just me now. When they take Mom’s body away and find out I live alone, what will they do with me?
They’ll put me in an orphanage, like the one on College Street, where the blinds sit crooked and broken in the windows. Where parentless children watch the world go by from those windows, inside darkened rooms. Nothing but a mattress on the floor and plates full of half-eaten butter sandwiches, crying themselves to sleep. It’s how I imagine it, anyway.
